


nothing gory means no glory

by donutcats



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drabble, I really enjoy writing from ron's pov, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's this moment where everything goes a bit quiet, when the sound of their combined breathing syncs up, just for a second, before the hitch in his ribs makes his lungs trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing gory means no glory

**Author's Note:**

> don't mind me as I write drabbles set in a vague timeline about these gross zombie apocalypse trash boyfriends. if you need me I'll be in my garbage can.
> 
> title is from Sloppy Seconds by Watsky

The floor presses into his shoulders, cold and welcoming as he remembers to breathe. There's a tapping noise, in the distance, a steady rhythm that settles into his eardrums, spreads out through his aching bones.

Carl's beside him, gulping down air just as greedily, elbow settled near his ribs.

There's this moment, Ron thinks, where everything goes a bit quiet, when the sound of their combined breathing syncs up, just for a second, before the hitch in his ribs makes his lungs trip.

The quiet is broken when the tapping becomes more insistent, when it becomes clearer, morphs into heavy bootfalls as Rick Grimes barrels into the room.

The word _shatters_ comes to mind, and Ron remembers one Christmas, when he was about Sam's age, before the end of the world, when he was helping his mom decorate the tree.

Christmas songs floated out from the radio in the kitchen, and his mom was stringing up old and new ornaments. She was letting him hold the newer, shatterproof ones, that were colorful and bought at Walmart.

He wanted to help though, to really help, and before she could tell him no, to be careful, he was grabbing one of the old ornaments, a pretty crystal spun angel, and then it was tumbling out of his fingers.

He remembers saying sorry over and over and feeling sick to his stomach, and his mom just gave him one of her small, quiet smiles, and said in an equally small voice; "If you're father asks, I'm the one that dropped it."

There was this breath of silence, that in hindsight felt like it stretched on for minutes but in reality it was a split second, before it shattered against the floor.

Rick hauls Carl up, careful not to manhandle him, his firm voice a stark contrast to his gentle hands, poking and checking over the injuries.

It kind of felt like a punch to the chest, as Ron still lays on the ground, watching as Rick _cares_ so much. It kind of makes him hate Rick and Carl just a bit more.

Ron drags himself to his feet, ignoring the others that followed Rick, that formed a crowd. He should look around, see if he spots his mom, but then he thinks better of it, would rather not see her at Rick's heels like she's glued there.

Instead, he shoulders through the crowd, doesn't make eye contact, and heads towards his house.

Later, he's sitting in the bathroom, back pressed flush against the sink cabinet, a damp wash cloth pressed to his lips.

Stitches won't be needed, and he's thankful for that. He's not in the mood to have another argument with his mom, and they're kind of lacking on the Doctor front. Again.

The wash cloth is white though, and with all of the blood from his lip and knuckles and that one split on his eyebrow, he's going to have to tell his mom _something_. Just not right now.

"Hey." Carl's voice makes him start, shoulders curling in on themselves almost reflexively. Carl's standing there, shoulder against the door jam, his own scrapes clean, possibly already scabbing over.

There’s this second, where Ron’s eyes zero in on the clean scrapes and the bruises with iodine spread on them, and he wonders who did that. Wonders who took care of Carl. It might have been Rick, but more than likely it was Michonne. They probably questioned him, lectured him, worried about him. Told him he shouldn’t get hurt while also telling him how happy they are that he’s ok.

"What do you want?" It's a fumble of words, hindered by the fabric still pressing against his mouth. The venom he meant to put into the question seems to get stuck in the white terry cloth, filtered out to make his voice just sound tired.

Carl walks farther into the bathroom to sit next to Ron, half against the sink counter. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Ron makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes cutting down to his lap. He takes the cloth away, frowns at the dark pink stain. "I'm doing pretty shitty."

"Yeah, me too." And he's smiling, even after what just happened. It's small, but it's there, and it just makes Ron's frown deepen. "That's what happens when you get into a fist fight."

Ron has another moment, where he just wonders about Carl. Wonders how he can smile so easily, how he can _not_ let his anger eat at him.

"Why do you even _care_?" Ron doesn't even attempt any bite, throws every bit of exasperation he's feeling into it. He scrubs messily at the cut on his eyebrow, still frowning into his lap.

There's no immediate answer. Their breath syncs up again, for a second, before Ron's hitches, trips.

"Because," Carl sighs, and when Ron looks back he sees that Carl's head is tipped against the corner of the sink cabinet, looking at the ceiling. "You're the only friend I remember having- the only _real_ friend." Carl shifts his head, blinks at Ron. "Everyone I know is only half my friend, half my family. Most of the friends I remember having are all dead-"

Carl cuts himself off when his voice hitches on the word dead, and then he’s pulling himself up and snatching the cloth from Ron's hands. The faucet blasts on, and Carl talks over the sound.

"You're still my friend Ron, even if you did try to kill me." The water shuts off, Carl sits heavily back down, tossing the newly damp and slightly less pink looking cloth back into Ron's lap. "Multiple times."

"That," Ron huffs out a humorless laugh, "makes me feel even shittier."

"I don't want you to feel shitty. I just want to know, after we literally just beat the shit out of each other, if we're even now."

The corner of Ron's mouth threatens to quirk up, so he hides it behind the cloth again, fingers pressing hard into his lips as he mumbles, "yeah, fine, we're even."

Carl's smiling, getting to his feet yet again, but this time pulling Ron with him. "Awesome. Now, I'm not a doctor, but if you want help patching yourself up, I can try my best."

Ron shakes his head, "I've been stitching myself up since even before the apocalypse."

"Still, a little help won't kill you."

Ron’s not too sure about that, but he still lets Carl turn the sink back on and rinse out the cloth, he lets him open up the medicine cabinet and look through what little they have.

He lets the anger seep out, get soaked up by a pink stained wash cloth as he sits on the toilet, lets himself be cared for.

**  
**


End file.
